Monday, December 12, 2011

H:tV Bowen's Journal Thursday, September 13, 1956

Morning has broken on
another useless day. It’s cold and it’s only going to get colder. Doc got me a
roof over my head, a couple of walls, and a place to lay down, but that was all
he could manage, and really more than I deserve. But it doesn’t stop me from
shivering in the morning, and wishing I had better heating, or less
“unintended” ventilation.

But that’s this morning.
This morning, I’m a poor, graduate student.

Last night, I was a hero,
if only for five minutes.

I spent the morning in the
stacks at the University Library (boring name for an impressive place). I still
couldn’t find any of the resources that the catalog said should be there, but
aren’t. I asked a resource clerk, who said everything had been removed and the
catalog hadn’t been updated. That’s simple insanity! The history of those books
alone makes them priceless. I immediately headed over to the special
collections to talk with the librarian there, but was halted by a cute little
German grad-student named Heidi, who thought I could get an appointment
sometime next month.

I booked the appointment,
and made another with Heidi for tomorrow night.

After those three
frustrating and wasted hours, I headed over to Doc’s apartment in the English
quarter. It feels like we haven’t been at Doc’s place in . . . well, forever. I
ran into Doc on the way in, and then we immediately ran into Ragman. You’d
think we’d be able to smell him long before we ever saw him, but maybe it’s
better we didn’t.

Ragman said Heinrich, the
well-dressed-man we’ve been hunting down, was trying to kill him, and he wanted
out protection to get to the local police station. No problem! I was running
short on cash anyhow, and Ragman had plenty of the Doc’s.

I have to admit, in my many
years of cavorting and living the jet-set lifestyle on my father’s dime, even I
have never been able to burn through such a relevant abundance of cash as the
Ragman claims he did in less than six hours. Certainly not without easy access
to Dom Perignon and some Cuban cigars. Ragman was hesitant to part with what
little money he had left, but a quick raid of the Doc’s liquor cabinet
convinced him to give me a fistful of dollars. I won’t see much in the way of
revenue from my new “transportation” job, so I’ll have to scrape every barrel
in the meantime.

We walked the Ragman over
to the police station and there met Officer Rutger. Rutger immediately put me
on edge. He seems like the kind of guy who, given the opportunity would shoot
his best friend in the back if it was the “right thing” to do. Still, for some
reason, I have a high degree of faith and trust in Rutger. Either he’s an
excellent cop, or I’m a push-over for his do-the-right-thing attitude. I ended
up telling him just about everything I’ve written in this journal. Not much
about myself, but our on-going investigation into the murders and so forth.

Rutger immediately decided
we needed to confront Heinrich, even though the evidence was flimsy and based
mostly on the information we’d provided him. To his credit, he asked Doc and I
to go along, Doc being the police consultant and all, and I being the only
thing that keeps Doc alive in these situations.

As soon as we entered the
grounds of Heinrich’s place, I knew we were on the right track. I can’t say
how, but this seemed to be the culmination of days of effort and tracking
through Berlin’s rainy, cold streets. I checked my weapons, made certain my
spare clips were in place, and Rutger gave me a cop-look of disapproval but
didn’t comment. Lucky for him.

No one was answering at
Heinrich’s but we could hear something that sounded like rushing water. Not
like someone was taking a shower, but more like we were up the hill from a
river. It was a creepy sound, but not especially suspicious. It wasn’t a scream
or a cry for help, or the sounds of gunfire, so Rutger was pretty much
helpless.

Fortunately, when Rutger
wasn’t looking (and after I turned the knob) the door opened all on its own
(after I shoved it with my foot). The sound of rushing water was louder, but
water isn’t illegal, even if you have a river running through your house. But
we knew someone was in the house (my future silver Porsche was parked outside).
Rutger told us that he was here to get answers, that Heinrich was suspicious
enough all on his own, and, in what I took to be a slight bend to his otherwise
rigid world-view, he was going into the house.

Gotta say, it was a nice
place. A bit on the German gothic for my tastes, but I’m an American and (past
tense) “nouveau riche” so what do I know? Still, dollar signs filled my eyes. I
quickly made an inventory of Heinrich’s wealth, and hoped things were about to
go down the way I thought they would.

They did.

We made our way up to the
second floor, with the sound of water rushing louder than ever, and at the far
end of the hall we saw the man himself: Heinrich. He was dressed in crazy,
scary robes, and there was some kind of swirling vortex before him. Power
radiated from the man, and not the kind of power you feel when you meet a
president or a general or someone like that. This was the kind of power you’d
think Merlin could use to throw thunderbolts from Olympus. I don’t mind telling
you that my mouth was dry, my bladder was full, and my palms were as sweaty as
a virgin groom’s on his wedding night.

The confrontation was fast,
and deadly.

Heinrich made some motions,
and ghosts, I swear to Almighty God or whatever Powers That Be, actual ghosts
came at us. Rutger fired first, and I watched in horror and dismay as exactly
what you think would happen, happened. The bullet went right through the
apparition.

Well, if we couldn’t shoot
the ghosts, then we should shoot the guy who made them appear. My two guns came
into my fists, and for the first time in days, I knew exactly what I was doing
and why. Once my weapons were in my hands, I didn’t hesitate. I pulled both
triggers, once.

Once was enough.

Two slugs hit Heinrich and
he went down, dead before he hit the floor.

There’s not much I can brag
about in this world, but you put a pair of pistols in my hands, and I guarantee
I’ll hit more than the broadside of a barn.

Immediately, the rushing
water sound was gone. The ghosts, gone. The swirling vortex of fear, gone.

Rutger was in shock, but I
wasn’t. I sent the poor man downstairs to call in the event. What followed next
was a mad rush of events that culminated in my “liberation” of several highly
portable items of decent worth, and, I’m proud to report, the aforementioned
silver Porsche.

Unfortunately, when the
police arrived and took my statement, they also insisted on taking my guns. The
beast within me, that darkness and anger immediately welled up. I actually
calculated my odds on shooting four armed officers of the law. The odds were in
my favor, but escape would not have been. Berlin is a city on the brink, and
locked down tightly by not just one government, but four. And not just four
governments keeping the peace, but four armed camps ready to spring into full
killing action should the order be given. I might have been able to keep from
killing all the German police at the scene, and I might have been able to get
away temporarily. But I’ve seen enough movies to know that you shoot a cop, and
the world will fall down around you like a ton of bricks.

What additionally swayed me
was the officers promise that I would get back the weapons, and the fact that I
had “liberated” a Luger from Heinrich. I was not weaponless, and my weapons
were safe. With some help from Rutger, and a little Jean Valjean, I might be
able to get them back without the police being the wiser. I’ve made some
inquiries, and a plan is forming.

Now, I gotta give the Doc
credit for some quick thinking here. He managed to take off the license plate
of a police car, and exchange it for the one on the Porsche. Granted, we’ll
have to ditch the police plate as soon as possible, but it did give us
immediate safety for the transport of the Porsche into Doc’s garage.

It is such a smooth,
beautiful, lovely machine. I drove it with the same kind of relish that a man,
forced to eat nothing but processed luncheon meat for months, would find for an
excellent, medium-rare, porterhouse steak. It was a pure treat to not be
bounced around by poor shocks or truck-tires.

I’d love to keep it.

I don’t think I can.

The funding it would bring
far outweighs the perilous nature of keeping the machine. I would be better off
selling it, and purchasing something more practical . . . by which I mean
legal. Something far lower profile that would allow my commerce to flow more
easily between checkpoints.